Digital Hate Mail from Olympia’s ‘Bob Johnson’?

Olympia, WA (10-29-14) – It’s been said nobody knows you’re a dog on the internet. Nobody there knows if you’re sane either. Normally the mentally ill quickly tire of inflammatory hate induced screeds to the editor of their local paper or community blog. This publication, however, has been targeted repeatedly by one calling himself ‘Bob Johnson’. The remarks are directed at who the writer presumes is the editor and accuses the same of “taking photos of young girls without their consent,” of “being hated by the community” and of not qualifying as a “serious journalist.” [etc.]

e.g. “It’s been obvious to me that you are a creepy misogynist from reading many of your previous posts, and observing how much of your free time is spent stalking and taking voyeuristic photos of young girls without their consent.” And, “Hopefully once you have a moment of clarity, and realize that everyone here sees you for who you really are, you’ll move to Alabama or Texas or somewhere where pushy white shitbags like you are a dime a dozen. You’ll feel right at home then, and can sit around drinking sweet tea and talking with the boys about all the young cunts you took pics of that weekend …”

Anonymity is prized by internet trolls precisely because it is so easily abused. Admittedly, ‘Bob Johnson’ is a pretty common name. But, an investigation reveals this particular writer pursuing a campaign of cyber stalking, thinly veiled threats, and harassment uses Olympia as his base of operation and Comcast as his access point to the greater internet world. Is ‘Bob Johnson’ known to this publication?–no, but his profile is becoming more familiar.

There *is* a Bob Johnson who owns Capitol City Guitars on Olympia’s 4th Ave. near Capitol Blvd.  If it’s the same Bob, it could explain his sense of entitlement and arrogance. Having attempted to insert himself in this publication, curiosity arose about WHO was baiting this community blog. The writer made it clear he was more than annoyed about photos publicly taken without permission, about “young girls”, and about excluding the object of his ire.

More research revealed the following intriguing facts about someone who may feel quite comfortable using the internet to launch personal attacks and intimidation:

BobJohnson

Bob Johnson hizzelf

BobJohnson2

Misogynistic Behavior?

BobJohnson3

Photo Taken w/Bob Johnson’s Blessings

BobJohnson4

2nd Amendment Advocate

BobJohnson5

Definitely no Misogyny here! — Music, Music, Music!

BobJohnson6

Pink Unicorn as a Musical Motif?

BobJohnson7

Alter Egos

BobJohnson8

Homecoming Queen?

Culture wars aside, there may be a more sinister aspect of Bob revealed in the following Daily Olympian article and comments that followed it as reported in 420 Magazine:

420 Magazine article

 POT Bust Nets Teacher

LACEY, WA – A North Thurston High School teacher is among three Olympia-area men accused of operating a marijuana-growing operation in a Centralia home, according to Lewis County law enforcement.

Glenn D. Larson, a Spanish-language teacher and the girls bowling coach at North Thurston High School, owns a home in the 100 block of Davis Hill Road in Centralia that law enforcement officials say had a crawl space remodeled with an “unusually elaborate” setup for growing marijuana.

“Usually, we find extension cords hanging from the ceiling,” Lewis County Sheriff’s Department Commander Steve Aust said. “They had ballasts that were properly mounted. The wiring was done in a professional manner.”

Larson and Larry D. Williams both of Lacey and Noel W. Lieseke of Olympia face charges of manufacture of marijuana, a felony.

Larson and Lieseke were booked into the Lewis County Jail on Wednesday and made initial appearances in Lewis County Superior Court on Thursday afternoon. Both were released from custody shortly after 5 p.m. Thursday, jail records show.

Aust said he did not know what Williams and Lieseke do for a living; he added that they are not teachers or professional electricians.

Aust said he was not sure how the three men knew one another but said that there was evidence that all three had participated in the grow operation.

There is no evidence that students were involved, he said.

The Lewis County PUD tipped off the task force after finding electricity improperly diverted to Larson’s house, Aust said.

Law enforcement officers found about 700 marijuana plants in various stages of processing, including 360 plants growing, during a raid Jan. 25, he said. No one was at the home.

Williams was arrested Jan. 29, and Lieseke was arrested Wednesday.

Officers arrested Larson after school Wednesday at the North Thurston district office, Aust said.

Larson is on administrative leave; whether he will be paid will depend on the outcome of court proceedings, district spokeswoman Courtney Schrieve said. She said district officials are cooperating with law enforcement and are working to get a permanent substitute for Larson’s classes.

Girls bowling, which Larson has coached for seven years, ended with a trip to the state competition last week for one bowler.

“It’s unfortunate, and it’s a distraction. But we’re about making sure that we can get the kids on track in their classes,” Schrieve said.

A felony conviction could affect Larson’s teaching license, even though the charge appears to be unrelated to his job, said Charles Schreck, director of the Office of Professional Practices, which has not started any investigation on this case because it has not received a complaint and Larson has not been convicted.

Teachers are expected to live up to a standard of “good moral character and personal fitness,” which includes not having felony convictions, Schreck said.

News Hawk- Weedpipe http://www.420Magazine.com
Source: The Olympian
Author: VENICE BUHAIN
Contact: Front Page – The Olympian – Olympia, Washington
Copyright: 2010 The Olympian
Website:Pot bust nets teacher

But, WAIT–There’s more! [comments left on the 420 Magazine site]

by luva-live (01-14-2011, 02:04 PM)

Well, the teacher’s trial is set for Feb. 14. i (Noel) was slapped on the wrist (30 days home monitoring and 24 mo. probation) my deal was sweet because I did not give a statement to the police/court. What they didn’t tell you in the Olympian (though it was printed in the Lewis County Chronicle, Feb. 11th 2010) was that Robert Johnson (owner of Capital City Guitars in Olympia) who was the funding for the construction of the operation and labor organizer, was the one who turned state witness and gave an hour long statement to the police to keep himself out of jail. What a slime-ball! The cops decided not to enter two 25-gallon bins full of finished buds in the evidence list (which shouldn’t surprise anyone) and the district attorney has based his case on lies against the teacher, an obvious political and media attention scheme. It ended up there were only about 500 plants, and about 100 were ready for harvest–beautiful Romulin and Northern Lights. The power connection was done poorly, in very wet conditions (underground spring went right through there). One of the poles shorted out, which didn’t affect the grow space. Yet the house had lost the 240v appliances, as well as the neighbor’s on the road reported loss of their 240v service. I would suggest to keep your place under 8000w and stay on the grid. Open other operations if you want to expand. There were 35,000w at this place; it would have probably worked if it weren’t for the connection. It’s not worth the risk.

by Ratbobjohnson (08-04-2011, 08:24 AM)

That is a lie! Noel ratted on the teacher too! Bob Johnson ran up a $30,000 credit card bill at Home Depot. Bob Johnson from Capital City Guitatrs, who rolled and lied before he even had a deal, had his employees and girlfriend prune and cultivate with Larry, and Noel. Bob Johnson did all the electrical. He even tried to get his landlord, Sandy, in trouble, if it would have gone federal. He said Sandy is an east coast Jew, who made his money selling coke in the 70’s and 80’s; now he is legit through real estate. Bob Johnson is such a moron, he did not even consider the statute of limitations. He is a liar and a rat! Larson is innocent! It only takes 2 people to lie and get you in trouble, so look out people!

Larry Williams and Bob Johnson rented the house from Larson, who lives in Olympia. The house is in Centralia. There is a lease agreement with Larry Williams name on it. Bob Johnson sold and sells pot out of his store, Capital City Guitars, in Olympia, putting it in a guitar case. He also buys stolen guitars from a pawn shop in Centralia. Then he sells them on e-bay under the name “Bobby Vegas.” Bob Johnson was the ring leader. He got Larry and Noel to implicate Larson, then rolled on them!!! The truth is told!!!!!!!!!!!

by RaysDad (08-04-2011, 09:08 AM)

What a screwed up story from the beginning.

by Ilynnboy (08-04-2011, 01:47 PM)

F’d story. No partners ever!! Doesn’t usually work out well.

by THsea (08-05-2011, 01:45 AM)

This makes me very sad for this Larson fellow. From what the poster RATBOBJ says, it seems he had no involvement what-so-ever. Well, beyond owning and renting out the location.

I was kind of wondering if the house was just owned by one of the three (from the article) and it seems we have our answer. Bad times. I really hope he doesn’t get screwed over (further).

by Ratbobjohnson (08-07-2011, 07:47 AM)

Yeah, Bob Johnson walked away without a scratch. Larson owned the home with other family memebers. They built it for their Mom after their Father died. Bob the rat, could have taken responsibility for himself; he would have received probation.

Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

TCTV Censors Journalist Member, Burns 1st Amendment

TCTVburn

Olympia, WA — Scientists from Harvard Medical School have discovered a way of turning stem cells into killing machines to fight brain cancer. Researchers were originally stymied in their effort using volunteers from TCTV because those sanctimonious assholes have shit for brains. —> Cursing Poehler

TCTV is an Olympia based 501(C)(3) public service corporation funded by various government agencies (e.g. Tumwater, Olympia, Lacey, Thurston County, etc.), Comcast (per its right-of-way franchise required by said government agencies), AND…fees collected from members masochistic enough to tolerate the abuse, ennui, bullying, and control fetishes staff direct at them. Woe betides the subscribed ‘member’ who has enough spine to complain about or object to the impertinence–but more about that later. Debbie Vinsel is TCTV’s director. She is also a bitch–and since bitches like company (it’s LONELY at the top!), she will make YOU her bitch–more about that later too.

[BTW, 'bitch' is one of those part time 'profanities'/vanities--it's often used to describe dogs. Readers will have to make up their own mind whether Vinsel is a dog or not. We're not placing any bets. Woof!]

Unlike most bitches, however, this one is curiously insistent on only the most euphemistic references, the most dulcet tones that rigorously avoid disparaging her or any of her asshole minions, not because she has a cunt, but IS one. She/They expect you to kiss their ass. A fish rots from the head first, and TCTV is no exception…more on that later also. Staff at TCTV may be more irritating than most apparatchiks because none own bed frames.

Lenny Bruce (1925 – 1966) was a pioneer and leading light to modern stand up comedy, a free speech advocate on steroids, an inveterate defender of 1st Amendment principles who ultimately died by his own hand, a broken man brought low by assholes just like those found at TCTV–> a bastion of upper middle class white privilege. Interestingly, their antipathy toward said principles mirrors those of lifestyle @narchists. The connection isn’t clear, at least politically, but possibly privilege offers one explanation. The lifestyle @ssholes are primarily upper middle class whites too. Lenny had found fertile ground.

Paul Krasner writes, I originally met Lenny Bruce in 1959 at the Hotel America in New York. He was scheduled to perform at a midnight show at Town Hall. I had already published an interview with him in The Realist that was conducted by mail, and now I handed him the succeeding issue, which featured an interview with psychologist Albert Ellis, including a discussion of the semantics of profanity. The problem words were spelled out rather than using asterisks or dashes, as was the practice in mainstream media. Bruce had been resorting to euphemisms on stage, and he was amazed that I could get away with it. “Are you telling me this is legal to sell on the newsstands?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “the Supreme Court’s definition of obscenity is that it has to be material which appeals to your prurient interest.” Bruce magically produced an unabridged dictionary from the suitcase on his bed, and he looked up the word “prurient.”

“Itching,” he mused, “what does that mean, that they can bust a novelty-store owner for selling itching powder along with the dribble glass and the whoopie cushion?”

I explained, “It’s just their way of saying that something gets you horny.” Bruce closed the dictionary, mock-clenching his jaw and nodding his head in affirmation of a new discovery: “So it’s against the law to get you horny!”

 

We became friends and, a few years later, when Playboy planned to publish his autobiography, “How to Talk Dirty and Influence People,” I was appointed his editor. There have been other books since, but “The Trials of Lenny Bruce,” written by a pair of diligent attorneys, Ronald K.L. Collins and David M. Skover, is the first fully recorded history of Bruce’s relationship with the 1st Amendment.

Compared to the traditional stand-up comics of the 1950s who told mysogynist jokes about their wives’ cooking, driving and frigidity, Lenny Bruce was a cultural mutation. With empathetic irreverence, he would create mini-theatrical dialogues — about racism, sexuality, nuclear testing, teachers’ salaries, drug laws, abortion rights, organized religion — peppered with improvised spoken-jazz riffs. He loved to play show-and-tell with his audiences. When Gary Cooper died, he brought the New York Daily News on stage to share a headline: “The Last Roundup!” And after he heard “Spanish Harlem” on the radio, he bought the record, came on stage with a phonograph and played it. “Listen to these lyrics,” he said. “This is like a Puerto Rican ‘Porgy & Bess.’ “

When John F. Kennedy won the presidential election in 1960, a young unknown impressionist, Vaughn Meader, seized the opportunity. He began to comb his hair with a flamboyant pompadour that dipped across his forehead. He consciously regressed to the Boston accent that he had tried so hard to lose. And he produced a comedy album, “The First Family,” that broke sales records and turned him into a star. A week after the assassination of JFK, Lenny Bruce kept his commitment to perform at the Village Theater on the Lower East Side. The country was still in a state of shock, and the atmosphere at the theater was especially tense. The entire audience was anticipating what Bruce would say about the assassination. He walked on stage and removed the microphone from its stand. When the applause for his entrance subsided, he just stood there for several seconds, milking the tension. “Whew!” he finally whistled into the microphone. “Vaughn Meader is screwed.” Although Collins and Skover meticulously researched “The Trials of Lenny Bruce” — finding the transcripts for each one of the trials took years — one error via a secondhand source must be acknowledged here. Referring to Bruce’s classic opening line at that post-assassination show, the authors incorrectly write: “With a paranoid fix on the jam-packed audience, he broke the silence: ‘Don’t shoot!’ “

Although Bruce was arrested several times, ostensibly on obscenity charges, his actual offense was blasphemy, as in his routine “Religions, Inc.,” and he knew it. “The reason I’ve been busted a lot these last couple of years is because of [my] religious point of view. That’s what it’s all been about.” In December 1962, Bruce was performing at the Gate of Horn in Chicago. He had been reading a study of anti-Semitism by Jean-Paul Sartre, and he was intrigued by the implications of a statement by Adolf Eichmann, orchestrator of the Holocaust, that he would have been “not only a scoundrel, but a despicable pig” if he hadn’t carried out Hitler’s orders. Bruce wrote a piece for The Realist, “Letter From a Soldier’s Wife” — namely, Mrs. Eichmann — pleading for compassion to spare her husband’s life. Now, on stage, he credited Thomas Merton’s poem about the Holocaust, and requested that all the lights go off except one dim blue spot. Then he began what was perhaps his most audacious satire, speaking with a German accent: “My name is Adolf Eichmann. And the Jews came every day to what they thought would be fun in the showers. People say I should have been hung. ‘Nein.’ Do you recognize the whore in the middle of you — that you would have done the same if you were there yourselves? My defense: I was a soldier. I saw the end of a conscientious day’s effort. I watched through the portholes. I saw every Jew burned and turned into soap. Do you people think yourselves better because you burned your enemies at long distance with missiles without ever seeing what you had done to them? Hiroshima, ‘auf Wiedersehen.’ [German accent ends.] If we would have lost the war, they would have strung [President] Truman up by the balls ….”

 

Bruce was arrested on obscenity charges that night. One of the items in the police report complained: “Then talking about the war he stated, ‘If we would have lost the war, they would have strung Truman up by the balls.” The head of the vice squad warned the manager of the Gate of Horn: “If this man ever uses a four-letter word in this club again, I’m going to pinch you and everyone in here. If he ever speaks against religion, I’m going to pinch you and everyone in here. Do you understand? You’ve had good people here. But he mocks the pope — and I’m speaking as a Catholic — I’m here to tell you your license is in danger. We’re going to have someone here watching every show.” Chicago had the largest number of Roman Catholics of any archdiocese in the country. Bruce’s jury consisted entirely of Catholics. The judge was Catholic. The prosecutor and his assistant were Catholic. On Ash Wednesday, the judge removed the spot of ash from his forehead and ordered the bailiff to instruct all the others to do likewise. The sight of a judge, two prosecutors and 12 jurors, every one with a spot of ash on their foreheads, had the surrealistic flavor of a wild Brucean image. In San Francisco, a jury had found Lenny Bruce not guilty of obscenity — arresting officers admitted on the witness stand that his material didn’t arouse their prurient interest — but in Chicago, the judge refused to permit that line of cross-examination by the defense. Bruce wondered, “What’s wrong with appealing to the prurient interest? We appeal to the killing interest.”

“I figured out after four years why I got arrested so many times,” Bruce would say. “I do my act at, perhaps, 11 at night; little do I know that 11 a.m. the next morning, before the grand jury somewhere, there’s another guy doing my act who’s introduced as Lenny Bruce in substance…. A peace officer … does the act. The grand jury watches him work and says, ‘That stinks!’ But I get busted. And the irony is I have to go to court and defend his act.”

Usually, that would consist of a list of offensive words taken out of context. Inspector Herbert S. Ruhe, a former CIA agent in Vietnam, was assigned to monitor Bruce’s show at the Cafe Au Go Go in Greenwich Village. He submitted his notes to Richard H. Kuh, an assistant district attorney, who took the matter directly to Manhattan Dist. Atty. Frank Hogan. Bruce would later comment on Ruhe’s courtroom performance: “This guy is bumbling, and I’m going to jail. He’s not only got it all wrong, but now he thinks he’s a comic. I’m going to be judged on his bad timing, his ego, his garbled language.”

Ruhe also testified that Bruce had engaged in obscene conduct. “Bruce moved the microphone backwards and forwards for a few minutes, something like this” — simulating a masturbatory act — “he was making a gesture towards his crotch.” Later, appealing to a three-judge panel, Bruce pleaded: “Your honor, the gestures, masturbations, were gestures of benediction. I did a bit on Catholicism. How perverse [my attorney] would be to defend me for gestures of masturbation. They were meant to be gestures of benediction …. The court hasn’t heard the show …. [P]lease let me testify. Let me tell you what the show is about …. Finally to talk to the court …. Please, your honor, I so desperately want your respect …. Don’t finish me off in show business. Don’t lock up these 6,000 words.”

In an incongruous fantasy at the Au Go Go, Bruce had confessed, “The most beautiful body I’ve ever seen was at a party in 1945. I was in the bedroom getting the coats. The powder-room door had been left intentionally ajar, and I viewed the most perfect bosom peeking out from the man-tailored blouse above a tweed pegged skirt …. Eleanor Roosevelt had the prettiest tits I had ever seen or dreamed that I had seen ….” Bruce was arrested for giving an obscene performance, and at the top of the police complaint was “Eleanor Roosevelt and her display of tits.” Ultimately, Bruce fired all his lawyers and defended himself. He was found guilty, even though the law stated that, to be obscene, material must be utterly without any redeeming social importance; thus, if one single person felt that Bruce’s performances had the slightest bit of redeeming social importance — and there were several who so testified — then he should have been found not guilty.

 

Bruce’s most relevant argument concerned the very obscenity statute that he’d been accused of violating. As his legal homework, he had obtained the legislative history of that statute from Albany, and he discovered that in 1931 there had been an amendment proposed that excluded from arrest in an obscene performance: stagehands, spectators, musicians and — here was the fulcrum of his defense — actors. The law had been misapplied to him. Despite opposition by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, the amendment had finally been signed into law by then-New York Gov. Roosevelt. “Ignoring the mandate of Franklin D. Roosevelt,” observed Lenny the lawyer, “is a great deal more offensive than saying Eleanor has lovely nay-nays.” Before sentencing, prosecutor Kuh recommended that no mercy be granted because Bruce had shown “a complete lack of any remorse whatsoever.” Bruce responded, “I’m not here for remorse but for justice. The issue is not obscenity but that I spit in the face of authority.” The face of authority spit back at Bruce by sentencing him to four months in the workhouse. In the press room of the Criminal Courts Building, a reporter asked, “Do you believe in obscenity?” Bruce replied, “What do you mean? Do I believe we should pray for obscenity?”

Bruce was a comedic pioneer who only wanted to exercise the same freedom to communicate without compromise on stage that he had in his living room. What’s shocking about “The Trials of Lenny Bruce” is not his utterances so much as the contrast between what he got arrested for and what is now taken for granted by the audiences of talented performers such as George Carlin, Margaret Cho and Chris Rock, and in the critical reception of such taboo-breaking cable-TV series as “Sex and the City” and “Six Feet Under.” Today, Robin Williams freely pantomimes cunnilingus, and the cable-TV series “South Park” proudly presents a sponsored, highly scatological episode about priestly child abuse. Bruce realized that prosecutors and judges were more interested in the advancement of their own careers than in his free-speech rights. In fact, wrote Nat Hentoff in the Village Voice, “Three lawyers in Kuh’s bureau, appalled at Bruce being set up … begged Kuh to hear Bruce for himself, and then decide whether Bruce ought to be busted. Kuh … refused, adding, ‘Stay out of this unless you want to be switched to the rackets bureau.’ ” And, according to one attorney, “After the trial of Bruce was over, I had a call from Judge Creel, who … said Judge Phipps also wanted to acquit Bruce but that [Chief] Judge Murtagh threatened to assign him to traffic court for the rest of his term if he did.” In a documentary about Hogan, the New York district attorney, former Asst. Dist. Atty. Vincent Cuccia confessed: “[Bruce] was prosecuted because of his words. He didn’t harm anybody, he didn’t commit an assault, he didn’t steal, he didn’t engage in any conduct which directly harmed someone else. So therefore he was punished first and foremost because of the words that he used. It’s wrong to prosecute anybody because of his ideas. It was the only thing I did in Hogan’s office that I’m really ashamed of. We drove him into poverty and used the law to kill him.”

“The date of Lenny Bruce’s death,” in 1966, the authors of “The Trials of Lenny Bruce” conclude, “is as good a marker as any of the moment when words alone — any performance words spoken in comedy clubs — ceased to be targets of prosecution.” The book comes with an CD containing relevant excerpts from interviews and Bruce’s performances, ranging from his poetic descriptions (a judge with “thick fingers and the homemade glass eye”) to his bit about prosecutors using in court the same words that Bruce got arrested for: “[Bruce] said ‘blah-blah-blah’ — then I dug something — they liked saying ‘blah-blah-blah.’ ” Moreover, hidden in the gray attache case that Bruce always carried into court was a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder, which captured Kuh reveling in those words as he cross-examined witnesses for the defense.

“The Trials of Lenny Bruce” serves as the missing link between two of Bruce’s statements: “In the Halls of Justice, the only justice is in the halls.” And, “I love the law.” Indeed, as club owners became increasingly afraid to hire him, he devoted more and more time and energy to the law, and when he finally got a booking in Monterey, he admitted, “I feel like it’s taking me away from my work.”

TCTV Crucifies Pure Speech

Asshole in chief and top bitch, Debbie Vinsel, sent the following letter after conducting what amounted to a secret straw poll:

October 22, 2014

John Smith
Olympia, WA

RE: Incident at TCTV on October 17, 2014

 

On the evening of October 17, you called me, at my home, to discuss a situation at TCTV.   

 

I accept your explanation about the gesture you made.   However, I am most concerned about your conduct after Maxwell questioned you about it. 

 

Based on reports received from people present at the time, you repeatedly raised your voice, used profanity, and called Robert a disparaging name.  Your conduct frightened other members and children that were present, and prevented staff from attending to their duties for more than an hour. 

 

Because of your conduct, in accordance with the TCTV Operating Policies and Procedures, I am suspending your TCTV Membership and all member privileges until May 1, 2015.  Beginning today, October 22, 2014, you are prohibited from entering the TCTV facility or attending any TCTV sponsored function or event.  You will not be allowed to reserve the studio or edit suites or check out portable equipment.  

 

Further, if another incident with TCTV ever occurs where you cannot control your temper or you disparage another person, your membership will be permanently revoked. 

 

The TCTV Operating Policies, Section 6.2 and Section 6.3 state:

 

6.2  Code Of Conduct  

Individuals and organizations using the TCTV facilities and channels must agree to abide by all TCTV policies regarding the use of equipment or channels for the production and presentation of their programming.  In addition, they are expected to respect the rights and dignity of the staff and other individuals in the facility.  Conduct that discriminates against or degrades any person will not be tolerated.  A reasonable standard of courtesy and respect must be observed.  TCTV reserves the right to restrict any person from using TCTV facilities for violation of this or other policies that result in the disruption of TCTV activities and operations…

     F. Harassment, threats and/or physical harm: Threatening, intimidating or harassing another with intent to substantially harm the person with respect to his or her physical safety or mental health.  This includes causing physical harm to any person or property on TCTV premises or at any TCTV sponsored activity or causing reasonable apprehension of such harm to another person…

 

     G. Disrupting TCTV functions: Intentionally and/or recklessly interfering with the normal TCTV operations or with TCTV sponsored activities.

 

6.3 Disciplinary Actions

Engaging in any of the acts prohibited in Section 6.2 may result in immediate revocation of all member privileges.

 

Violation of any other TCTV policies may result in suspension or revocation of privileges.  The TCTV Executive Director will determine the termination or length of any suspension based on circumstances surrounding and the severity of the incident(s) that resulted in the suspension.  Services may also be suspended or prohibited to individuals for criminal activities off-site that may pose a danger to TCTV or its operations.

 

Airing programming on Channel 22 does not require a membership.  Therefore, during the suspension period, you may submit programming to air by either mailing it or having someone deliver it to us.  

 

If you would like to retrieve the video material you currently have on one of the G-raid mini hard drives, you may send or have someone deliver a hard drive to which we can copy the data.    We will keep the material on the TCTV hard drive until December 1, 2014.   If you have not arranged to have your material copied by that date, we will erase the drive.

 

If you wish to contest this decision, you may appeal it to the TCTV Board of Directors by sending me a written Request to Appeal of Decision with 30 days of the date of this letter.  The TCTV Board of Directors will schedule a meeting to consider an appeal within 30 days of the receipt of any request.

 

Deborah S. Vinsel, CEO

cc:   TCTV Board of Directors

RIPOSTE

(Pending — In Progress)

PROFANE:  [pruh-feyn, proh-]

adjective

1. characterized by irreverence or contempt for God or sacred principles or things; irreligious.
2. not devoted to holy or religious purposes; unconsecrated; secular (opposed to sacred ).
3. unholy; heathen; pagan: profane rites.
4. not initiated into religious rites or mysteries, as persons.
5. common or vulgar.
verb (used with object), profaned, profaning.
6. to misuse (anything that should be held in reverence or respect);defile; debase; employ basely or unworthily.
7. to treat (anything sacred) with irreverence or contempt; violate the sanctity of:

to profane a shrine.
Synonyms
1. blasphemous, sacrilegious, impious, ungodly. 2. temporal. 3. unhallowed.5. low, mean, base. 7. desecrate.
Antonyms
1. sacred. 2. spiritual. 3. holy.

[So, according to standard dictionary definitions, what the bitch is on about amounts to religion, her sacred cows, her biases/prejudices which, by dint of abuse of whatever authority she supposes she has. Perhaps she was confused and MEANT 'obscene', but...]

OBSCENE: [uh b-seen]

 

adjective

1. offensive to morality or decency; indecent; depraved: obscene language.
2. causing uncontrolled sexual desire. [appealing to prurient interests!?]
3. abominable; disgusting; repulsive.
Can be confused

Except ‘obscene’, legally speaking (as noted in the article above) MEANS completely without any scientific, literary, social, political, or artistic merit AND appealing to the listener’s/reader’s PRURIENT interest (making them horny, which is a core duty of government and every ‘decent’ hypocrite to prevent). So if even one person finds some redeeming merit OR it doesn’t make you horny, by case law definition, it is NOT obscene material. But, no matter if she can stick the pointy end of her shoe up your ass (another ambiguous ‘profanity’ dealing with the sacred part of someone’s anatomy?–or maybe just your cow’s best friend).

But what about ‘DISPARAGE’? Everyone knows that’s criminal, forbidden, and unheard of in polite society. Nobody in a civilized nation gossips or speaks ill of another. It simply isn’t done.

DISPARAGE: [dih-spar-ij]

verb (used with object), disparaged, disparaging.

1. to speak of or treat slightingly; depreciate; belittle:

Do not disparage good manners.
2. to bring reproach or discredit upon; lower the estimation of:

Your behavior will disparage the whole family.

OK, clearly here’s the rub because Robert Kam and Kate WERE disparaged. “Robert Kam is a prig and you know it!” [When given Viagra, he just gets taller.] “I don’t know what they think they saw [bird], but they’re full of shit!” Kate, TCTV’s President (she nakedly/proudly pointed out) of its board of directors was asked to stop lying and to leave the proximity of the conversation that was being conducted with Maxwell, the belligerent member services staffer with the perennial chip on his shoulder and look of boredom/long sufferance on his face–the catalyst in this episode of Angry Birds. It’s the rub because some of us reserve the right to disparage an asshole/Nazi, either in person or absentia. Some of us reserve the right to call a spade a spade, to tell the truth no matter how uncomfortable, to speak up for ourselves when unfairly attacked/accused, to demand some kind of fairness even faintly resembling due process, to examine the accusation against us and to confront our accusers. Vinsel opined TCTV wasn’t a court of law (this may prove good news even yet) and was obviously unflapped by the deliberate failure to provide even a scintilla of what most Americans regard as traditional values such as fairness and the meaningful opportunity to mount a defense. In this instance, that opportunity will have to wait for another more competent forum where the assholes don’t hold full sway and truth isn’t assessed by one’s finger in the wind. Maxwell wasn’t flipped off, but he probably should have been–and not behind his back either. The same can be said for Robert Kam, Kate Jantz-Koprivnik, and Maxwell ‘not-so-smart’ Brown. If you see them, give them the respect they deserve with a one-fingered salute.

The basis for bigotry at TCTV is reflected in the all too common white American attitude, “We here are all alike, and if any among us is different, let them be with others!”

“The war is not meant to be won, it is meant to be continuous. Hierarchical society is only possible on the basis of poverty and ignorance…The war is waged by the ruling group against its own subjects and its object is not the victory over either Eurasia or East Asia, but to keep the very structure of society in tact.” -George Orwell, 1984-

“Did you really think we want those laws observed?” said Dr. Ferris. “We want them to be broken. You’d better get it straight that it’s not a bunch of boy scouts you’re up against… We’re after power and we mean it… There’s no way to rule innocent men. The only power any government has is the power to crack down on criminals. Well, when there aren’t enough criminals one makes them. One declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible for men to live without breaking laws. Who wants a nation of law-abiding citizens? What’s there in that for anyone? But just pass the kind of laws that can neither be observed nor enforced or objectively interpreted – and you create a nation of law-breakers – and then you cash in on guilt. Now that’s the system, Mr. Reardon, that’s the game, and once you understand it, you’ll be much easier to deal with.”
–Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged, Ch. III, “White Blackmail”–

Or, as in TCTV’s case, when tyranny/injustice becomes constitutionally frustrating, outsource/privatize it.

 

 

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Kursa 2014 – HD

Latvia and it’s capitol, Riga, are a long way from the Pacific NW. There are about 2 million people in the tiny, but fiercely independent nation. Only roughly half are Latvian. The others are largely unwelcome ethnic Russians given the keys to the country by Stalin not long after WWI. With perestroika, glasnost, and the collapse of the Soviet Union, the ancient Latvian people are once again free from tyranny and Communist oppression. What makes this miracle all the more amazing for a fertile, but flat land devoid of natural barriers to invading armies from its much larger neighbors, is only 1 in every 7,000 people on the planet is a Latvian speaking native–an ancient people long predating the Russians themselves and a virtual endangered ‘species’.

The Latvian people’s antipathy toward their ethnic immigrant Russian interlopers might be more easily understood given their recent WWII hardships caught between the Communists to the east and the Nazis to the west. Their love for their land, their language, their heritage, traditions, history, culture and, above all, their children, stands as a remarkable example of courage in the face of adversity.

In the wake of WWII, those Latvian refugees who survived became part of a diaspora. Many struggled to arrive in the U.S. where they remain today. Although they left their home thousands of miles away, they continue to maintain a bond to their kin and countrymen. They encourage their children, 2nd and 3rd generation Latvians, to do the same. Part of this article of faith resides in the Latvian Village (KURSA) situated a few miles outside of Shelton, WA, abutting a large parcel where State Prisoners are housed in a penal/corrections institution. For all that, the Latvian Village property is beautiful, lush, and covered with firs, a lake, streams, and a climate somewhat milder, but reminiscent of the home they were forced to leave behind. Some still make pilgrimages to Latvia to attend cultural festivals. Those who cannot manage that expense often send their children for several weeks to the Latvian Village summer camp held exclusively to promote the Latvian language (related to Sanskrit and believed to have migrated up the Indus valley thousands of years ago), their ancient tribal history, customs, dress, dance, and music.

Through the magic of modern multimedia communication technology, you can see, hear, and perhaps feel some of the bright spirit with which they imbue their children, hoping to preserve what is precious in both.

The video clips posted on Youtube are from the culminating event/performance of the KURSA dance/music festival from which children are ultimately awarded a graduation certificate after years of summer attendance, work, and the fun of each other’s company as kindred spirits. HD DVD’s of the performance and snaps may be purchased from Maija Reikstins, the Latvian Village music director. All proceeds will go to the Latvian Village only and scholarships for the Latvian children who could not otherwise attend.

A full Latvian:English translation of the lyrics, as well as links to a slide show of snaps taken at the event can be found at: amicuscuria.com/wordpress

The first of the clip is largely the invocation, prayer, awards of recognition, diplomas, acknowledgments, and attributions of those who made the event possible and participated. The children’s names can be heard. The spelling of the same is beyond my ken as I don’t speak the language.

It’s self evident the camp building used to host this event was not a studio. Hence, the lighting is difficult, hard to reach, and the fire exit signs need a bag over their heads during the performance. Some concessions were made to the photographer why blacking out the windows and doors which would have back lit the subjects. There were too many folding metal chairs unnecessarily within the frames, but the children were universally beautiful and gave a stunning performance for all of only 3-weeks they had to learn a language in which they were not fluent. Thus, except in the dance numbers, their eyes (and windows to their souls) are averted downward to read the Latvian songs they perform. There were many tears and hugs at the end while they bid their goodbyes to one another. Norman Rockwell could scarcely have created a warmer ambiance for his subjects. Roll over, Beethoven!…all this heartfelt goodness is available to you only through your local Latvian Village, right here in the woodsy glens of Mason County.

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US Ebola Vaccine Mothballed for 10 Years

Big Pharma in the US stifled an Ebola vaccine for over 10 years due to greed.

by Denise Grady

GALVESTON, Tex. — Almost a decade ago, scientists from Canada and the United States reported that they had created a vaccine that was 100 percent effective in protecting monkeys against the Ebola virus. The results were published in a respected journal, and health officials called them exciting. The researchers said tests in people might start within two years, and a product could potentially be ready for licensing by 2010 or 2011.

It never happened. The vaccine sat on a shelf. Only now, with nearly 5,000 people dead from Ebola and an epidemic raging out of control in West Africa, is the vaccine undergoing the most basic safety tests in humans.

Its development stalled in part because Ebola was rare, and until now outbreaks had infected only a few hundred people at a time. But experts also acknowledge that the lack of follow-up on such a promising candidate reflects a broader failure to produce medicines and vaccines for diseases that afflict poor countries. Most drug companies have resisted spending the enormous sums needed to to develop products useful mostly to poor countries with little ability to pay for them.

Now, as the growing epidemic devastates West Africa and is seen as a potential threat to other regions as well, governments and aid groups have begun to open their wallets. A flurry of research to test drugs and vaccines is underway, with clinical trials starting for several candidates, including the vaccine produced nearly a decade ago. With no vaccines or proven drugs currently available, the stepped up efforts are a desperate measure to stop a disease that has defied traditional means of containing it.

“There’s never been a big market for Ebola vaccines,” said Thomas W. Geisbert, an Ebola expert here at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston, and one of the developers of the vaccine that worked so well in monkeys. “So big pharma, who are they going to sell it to?” Dr. Geisbert added: “It takes a crisis sometimes to get people talking. ‘Ok. We’ve got to do something here.’ ”

Dr. James E. Crowe Jr., director of a vaccine research center at Vanderbilt University, said that academic researchers who develop a prototype drug or vaccine that works in animals often encountered a “biotech valley of death” in which no drug company would help them cross the finish line.

Up to that point, the research may have cost a few million dollars, but tests in humans and scaling up production can cost hundreds of millions, and bringing a new vaccine all the way to market typically costs $1 billion to $1.5 billion, Dr. Crowe said. “Who’s going to pay for that?” he asked.

“People invest in order to get money back,” Dr. Crowe added.

The Ebola vaccine on which Dr. Geisbert collaborated is made from another virus, V.S.V., for vesicular stomatitis virus, which causes a mouth disease in cattle but rarely infects people. It had already been used successfully in making other vaccines.

The researchers altered V.S.V. by removing one of its genes — rendering the virus harmless — and inserting a gene from Ebola. The transplanted gene forces V.S.V. to sprout Ebola proteins on its surface. The proteins cannot cause illness, but they provoke an immune response that in monkeys, considered a good surrogate for humans, fought off the disease.

The vaccine was actually produced, in Winnipeg by the Public Health Agency of Canada. The Canadian government patented it, and 800 to 1,000 vials of the vaccine were produced. In 2010, it licensed the vaccine, known as VSV-EBOV, to NewLink Genetics, in Ames, Iowa.

The Canadian government donated the existing vials to the World Health Organization, and safety tests of the vaccine in healthy volunteers have already begun.

Scientists Consider Repurposing Robots for Ebola

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Not That Kind of Woman

From the BEDTIME STORIES FOR ADULTS series

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“Over the years you have been hunted
by the men who threw harpoons
And in the long run he will kill you
just to feed the pets we crave,
put the flowers in your vase
and keep the lipstick on your face.
Over the years you swam the ocean
Following feelings of your own
Now you are washed up on the shoreline
I can see your body lie
It’s a shame you have to die
to put the shadow on our eye
Maybe we’ll go
Maybe we’ll disappear
It’s not that we don’t know
It’s just that we don’t want to care.
Under the bridges
Over the foam
Wind on the water
Carry me home.”
-Crosby/Nash-

P1020264

The Look of Love

P1020282

All In the Family

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Alien Love

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“I’m not that kind of woman,” Perfidia growled, “and I won’t compete with an older woman. That’s not who I am, politically.” But, that’s exactly who she was as she strolled along the shore tossing her disintegrating cousins back into the sea. They’d been set upon by a strange malady researchers had yet to explain that left her unafflicted. Each arm of those dying starfish had cashed in its chips, deciding to leave the poker game before real trouble showed up–it was a vote for independence about a generation and 30 years of industrialization too late. From the depths had they been born, and to the depths they would return–dust to dust, ashes to ashes, drop for drop. They would greet us once again in Canaan Land when we hastened to join them soon enough. Death, even come early, was irreconcilably part of the great circle. She paused to sniff the salt air and added, “Besides, you are too old for me and there are plenty of fish in the sea–younger ones at that. I must heed what my body tells me, as its voice is powerful indeed. I’m in the prime of my life.”

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He quickened his pace to keep up with her. It was no longer as easy as it had once been, his balance unsteady, his footing less sure–even with fins, she outdistanced him almost as easily on land as in water. Perfidia was also proving more slippery than he’d bargained for. Stopping to catch his breath, he recalled how Michael had cautioned him not to sleep with mermaids if he couldn’t swim. He’d immediately ignored her wisdom, of course. But now, he was beginning to regret it. The rocky shoreline seemed preordained to bring a man down or break him–especially at night. Flecks of salt spray wet his cheek. He’d left his oil skins at home in the far corner from a comfortable fire. He reckoned one as beautiful as this would have little problem attracting young Turks, yet she complained they were too hard to catch. Only the older ones seemed willing to indulge her. He’d noticed she consumed them like sardines from the occasional bone in her wake. She had a wicked smile and dulcet tones are soft as any angel’s. Yes, the scales were hard to get accustomed to, but her eyes more than made up for that. And, oh yes, she WAS slippery–there was always that, though company where that might be aired was hard to find. Still, she bristled with rebuke and boundaries more finely woven than the sheerest fishnet. Approaching her was like wading through a nest of fishhooks, a hedgehog of reproach.

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Amicus had decided on the strategy of Orion–advance with a rose colored lens of his own making–a handsomely gilded mirror fashioned out of self delusions and trust a girl scout would have found fatuous. It wasn’t that he could feel the pain of stepping through the shards of that shattered glass so much as hear the crunch his numbed bare bleeding feet had whispered as he made his way. He’d mistaken them for eggshells. He hadn’t counted on the fragility of mirrors, nor had he recalled the more prudent course Orion had seized on by polishing his shield. Amicus had none. Predicating the affair on vows of friendship insisting on caring about him and not wanting to see him hurt had proven no defense at all. Guileless, he was easily digested.

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“I have no mate, no partner–I’m alone and vulnerable,” she’d pleaded. “I will be your mate, your partner–I will always be your friend,” he’d reassured her, “I have other promises to keep and commitments, to be sure, but my heart is big enough to include you, if only you can accept all involved as equals–family.” But it wasn’t to be. Women were quick to recognize this beautiful, but slippery scaly creature. Divas don’t mix. When this carnivorous wasp showed up to rob the honey and make off with the grub, the hive invariably set upon her and drove her off. It was always the same, the females, the workers did the heavy lifting of excluding her, never the drones–they were besotted with her charm, her beautiful body, her sultry voice and inviting overtures…at least until the dye was cast.

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“Can I pee  on you?” she demurely asked one night, “It would be a big turn-on for me.” Not being wise to the mating protocols of fish, he responded obligingly, “I guess so–I mean I don’t think it would hurt me, and if it makes you happy…” The available bedding wouldn’t allow for this kind of adventure, but the thought gave rise to other pillow talk. “What’s it like to sleep with fish?” he asked. “Why do you ask?” she snipped. “I was just curious,” he parried. “Well, I read that pillow talk is just another way for men to oppress fish and control them.” Amicus pondered this weighty conjecture. He recalled again how he’d been warned about sleeping with mermaids. He also recalled other folk wisdom about fish and visitors beginning to stink after 3 days. How many mariners had ignored such sage advice when confronted with a pretty face and a slippery personality? His fate was sealed. Though he thought to preserve his catch in the cold box, the house began to reek, then the neighborhood, then his resolve and the tone of their affair.

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It would have been difficult if there’d been only himself in such a tempestuous arrangement, but there were others–more than 3 not counting himself. Sometimes they were all together under one roof with her and barely enough space to sleep without disturbing one another, an ex-husband older than her father set on ‘reconsumating’ the marriage who she’d secretly married as a teen to avoid the disapproval of her parents, an artist who’d become homeless after offering to paint her in the nude, and a bicycle mechanic now once again homeless after she’d entered his inner circle. She was the ultimate femme fatale. Perfidia was also a creature of large appetites and little to no conscience. A steady diet of fish had allowed her to grow strong and ravenous. Eventually, after too much impertinence to bear for unrequited love or even unrequited friendship, he broke. “I don’t get metaphor,” she’d complained, “Be more explicit and tell me what you mean, although do remember I read somewhere there’s no such thing as constructive criticism!” He was certain she didn’t see this observation as anything to do with her own tongue.

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Amicus had gently suggested that to have friends, you have to BE a friend, and that it didn’t hurt to be a lady while at it. “Well, we’ve already established I’m no ‘lady’,” she rejoined, “and I don’t want emotional abuse or constructive criticism to be the price of friendship.” She scowled, daring him to offer more. He rose and took the bait.

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“I certainly want nothing to do with ‘emotional abuse’. That you’re ‘in love w/someone else’ is fine. Like you’ve said, you never declared you ‘love’ me. On the other hand, the premise for a friendship was that you cared about me, and vice versa. Yes, I can be more specific, though I hesitate to go into a long litany, when it comes to MY being offended:

I was offended when you didn’t want to be SEEN having me pick you up (from Alderbrook) where you were putting on a show to a packed aquarium.

I was offended when you didn’t want to be SEEN in my company while driving you to TESC to pick up your bike, and later your fry’s.

I was offended when you told me by phone when I needed to talk, “You’ve got 5 minutes!”

I was offended when I asked if you sought a ‘contract’, as you asked me, with your next meal and you said, “Oh, no–I wouldn’t ask him for anything like that.”

I was offended when you asked me to take you and your fry to dinner after I’d explained I was poorer than you. You conveniently assumed not dressing in rags or driving a new car meant I couldn’t be taken at my word. You used me–constantly.

I was offended when you acted too good to eat what I, myself, eat in gleanings from local produce stands. You said you went dumpster diving yourself while I pointed out I hadn’t brought the produce from a dumpster. Nor would perfect produce off the grocer’s shelves have sufficed. You insisted on ONLY organic food from the COOP, no less. You weren’t willing to cook and preserve it yourself, saying you didn’t have time.

I was offended when you acted like you couldn’t trust me with the key to your home, even for a few minutes…even asking me if I was going to take anything. But, you expect others to trust you!

I was offended when you would often act fearful, like I was going to hurt you…or your daughter. You had no basis applicable to me for this overreaching assumption.

I was offended when you asked about my Netflix password after bristling when I asked for your website password for barely long enough to post a pop-up on your website in your presence.

I was offended when you asked me if all I wanted when coming over was to ‘fuck’, and on another occasion asked if I was trying to have you touch my ‘crotch’. You can ask to piss on me, but your ‘boundaries’ are beyond reproach.

I admit to some curiosity about who you are in ‘love’ with. What are they doing to help you? Ah, yes–the bike mechanic.  Except now that he’s no longer as useful as you envisioned, the welcome mat for him is being rolled up as well.

Yes, you wounded me and I feel you were cavalier about it. But, I’m blessed with a safe place and someone who genuinely cares about me, though she doesn’t always sound like it. I’d hoped to create enough room for you to be safe too. I don’t compartmentalize well.

You’ve been abused by men in the past–violently so. I’m not them and didn’t like being treated like I was. I do not believe you genuinely care what happens to me or are interested in what happens in my life. I especially feel like you would throw me under the bus if others insisted you do so or you found it convenient/awkward.

So, I intend to complete my editing of your performance at TCTV and the fish music with or without your cooperation, post it, and broadcast it. I was willing to spend some time with you, if you were interested, demonstrating how to use the editing software. It doesn’t sound like your time constraints or inclination will allow for that.

I will list myself as the producer and the fishery. I will provide you and the porgy with full credit as the performing artists including contact info for those interested in hiring you. My own logo and information will also be included. This is not negotiable. I will do my best to make the two of you look and sound good. I do wish you happy spawning. I hope you find what you’re looking for and it’d be great if I knew who you were in ‘love’ with so I’m not tempted to ask others.

I do NOT want to be ‘used’ anymore.

‘Patriarch’ is a great label to affix as it allows ignoring the feelings of the man when, after all, he must be so ‘powerful’ and ‘privileged’.

I do not blame you for seeking a romantic interest w/someone more suitable for your age and lifestyle. What I do resent is your utter disdain for my feelings, focusing only on your own. You admitted, “I’m selfish.” I’d have to agree–an understatement. You’re so self absorbed, you’re blind–terminally narcissistic.

Nevertheless, you have some sympathy from both Michael and myself for being, of necessity, in ‘survival mode’. Things have to be tough in an ocean of predators. But, you’ve been needlessly and gratuitously hard on me emotionally. I don’t feel ‘safe’ at your place, or even calling you anymore. That disappoints me.

I felt insulted when you’d grouse about how much time you’d invested/spent w/me as though it was a 1-way street. I sincerely hope you treat your other fishermen friends with more consideration in the future.

Yes, I’m still your friend. I care about what happens to you, and I’m NOT a friend to everyone–far from it. But, I think you have a lot of catching up to do to BE a friend, and I’m not certain at all you’re up to it. That will have to be OK as I’m not counting on it or you.

Boundaries:
1) Don’t use me.
2) If you don’t care about me, tell me so I can get on with my life without any illusions.
3) If I can’t count on your loyalty, tell me, as that’s the basis for any trust or friendship, so I’m not wasting my time w/you thinking otherwise.
4) Do NOT act embarrassed to be seen in public with me or to be seen having me pick you up. I have NEVER been treated like that by ANY ‘friend’ and find it intolerable!
5) Recognize I am not in a position to help you financially without my having to apologize for it.
6) Do NOT assume (as you stated so succinctly) I am an asshole!
7) Consider that any quid pro quo I may want for services you request might not involve $ or your body. I’ve given a lot of thought to your question of whether my financial relationship with Michael makes me a whore. No, it does not…because we DO care about and love each other. Whores do not. If this were not the distinction, then every relationship where one party was more successful financially would make it a form of prostitution. On the contrary, it’s prostitution when the whore USES the patron. It’s purely a business relationship and there is no emotional commitment. That sounds more like what we had going than Michael and myself except for the fact I told you I loved you. I meant that and it was unconditional without any ‘strings’ or ‘contracts’! That you would treat that as contemptuously as you did is sad, but I’ll get over it. You, however, may not because while love may make one vulnerable, sneering at it (compatmentalizing?) leaves a vacuum, even if it’s unrequited. I’m a romantic–in love with the idea of love. I’d much rather suffer the pain of that than the emptiness of the alternative. Whoever you’re in ‘love’ with, I give it 6 months. You are fickle, selfish, and don’t see men in the same league as you emotionally.”

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Amicus had learned Perfidia had sufficient reason to be suspicious of men. When she had landed younger ones, she’d attracted stalkers, one who had angrily swung her body by the hair on her head and another who had swung her guitar as violently, smashing it into a wall while destroying it. Being the youngest had given her a taste for indulgence, he reasoned, but lent her nothing of how to be a lady or sensitive to the feelings of others, especially the hot blooded young Turks. She battled them toe to toe as though her life depended on it, for it did, giving no quarter and getting none in return. The sire of her fry felt especially used, like a sperm bank withdrawal and he was paying the price for his lack of foresight in the form of child support. “Perhaps I did use him,” she mused. Setting up men proved facile for her–keeping them was more difficult. Ultimately, the spirit wilts after enough of the body has been picked clean.

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“Those two have issues!” exclaimed one TCTV staffer after the video shoot of their performance. “It was her ex-husband,” advised Amicus, delineating between that status and the fry’s sire. “Really? He’s SO much older than her,” marveled the staffer. “It happens,” smiled Amicus. Fish aren’t that particular. She’d also been, for her, on her best behavior.

It didn’t take long for Perfidia to break the silence after getting the online communication outlining just why their one-time affair sucked bad…the one where she’d wanted more early on, always more…until the well ran dry. “You are brilliant,” she glossed before beginning to dissect the heartfelt appeal to emotion and human decency. “What do you mean you might ask around?”, she challenged, “Is that some kind of blackmail?” “No, not at all,” he demurred. “Well, if you must know who I’m in love with,” she continued, “It’s the bike mechanic. But, who were you going to ask, my parents?” “I don’t know your parents or where they live or how to contact them,” rationalized Amicus. “You don’t know my friends,” Perfidia glowered. “Good point,” said he. “Well, don’t go talking to him–I don’t want to scare him away,” she added. “Fair enough,” he agreed, “Best of luck.”

But luck wasn’t with Perfidia. While she’d cried her heart out over the phone to Amicus only a week or so earlier, the homeless bike mechanic was now in her lair with two young minnows in tow. She made her move, inviting him to move in permanently, and he gently declined the overture. She was crushed–then angry. He’d have to move his stuff out of her space sooner than later–much sooner now that she’d been rebuffed. She’d undertaken building the Panama Canal w/her intended before even establishing a drainage ditch. Her orchestrations failed. Some guys just aren’t into sea food–especially if they’re on the menu.

Perfidia wasn’t done, she took issue with other minor discrepancies, ignoring the overall picture. “Don’t eat me,” begged Amicus. “Eat you?” exploded Perfidia, “You rip into me with your e-mail and online message and expect me NOT to eat you?

Things got worse–if that’s possible in the Maritimes. Things were getting slimy in a hurry. TCTV setup the unwary fisher of men in a bid to be even more perfidious, in their own unique fashion, than Perfidia herself. Disturbed, Amicus gave Perfidia a jingle on the phone, seeking moral support–the kind a friend might offer. Perfidia suggested mediation or therapy instead. She wouldn’t return his calls or messages asking for some commiseration, a courtesy he’d been more than generous with on her behalf. Perfidia would have none of it until her silence prompted him to query why she would not return his calls. Like a fish out of water, she finally called during the middle of a conversation with another seaman, a musical one. She said she’d call back later, then did so after a minute. She couldn’t stand curbing her ire or desire for instant gratification. The musical one excused himself from what he saw as an awkward 3-way call. Perfidia read the riot act. She lead off with, “Let’s not communicate for a couple of months. This is all just too stressful for me. I thought being a journalist would be fun/interesting, but I didn’t realize it was so fraught with difficulty and risk. I can’t handle it.” “But, you haven’t DONE anything,” he countered, “Where’s your loyalty?” “You called on a Friday night when this TCTV thing came up,” she argued, “and I can’t handle it.” “Thanks a lot!” he objected. “I should have known better than to rely on you. Forget the two months–let’s not speak to one another again EVER! By the way, would you please mail the video tape, A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT,  to me I loaned you and your fry?”

Perfidia had spawned out for the season. She needed to regain her strength for another run, maybe next year. She was entering a “new phase” in her life, she explained.

Amicus considered it all and concluded a parting shot to underscore his disgust and narrow escape would be cheaper than a therapist and much more satisfying. It read:

My address (for returning A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT video) is Amicus, 1515 Tiger Tail Lane, Olympia, WA 98502.
The video tape has sentimental value to me even if it’s not of great monetary value. I loaned it to you and your fry out of friendship and a show of good faith.
I now regret that. Somehow, I doubt I’ll see it again as it would take you out of your way to mail it.
I can spend months listening to YOUR drama, the slights and impertinence YOU have suffered at the hand of Contrary Barry Garden, or to you crying your heart out to me over the bike mechanic, or issues regarding your landlord, Section 8 housing authorities, the fish market, the cod fisherman across the street disrespecting you, or Invincible keeping his distance, the clients who owed you money, or who you owed money to–all that’s a given, right? Moreover, I got to listen for weeks over how whatever I did crossed this or that boundary of the dozens you laid out. BUT, when *I* finally take you up on your suggestion I be more explicit and take the time to explain/defend myself–even ONCE, that’s just too much for you, too much drama, too much stress. I was expected as YOUR friend to commiserate over your issues with your fry’s sire, but when I asked for moral support or suggest I’m too sensitive for you or make other observations even you admit, that’s just “over the top”?
I regret meeting you and all the many things I did for you, the time I spent on your behalf, the $ I spent for what I feared you needed, the emotional investment and above all, the TRUST I placed in you. I will NEVER do such a thing again. I have sworn off fish forever! Of course, there’s no way I can take it all back, but I would if I could. What I said is the God’s honest truth, you may like fishermen, but you do NOT care about them–you certainly didn’t care about me and I have absolutely NOTHING to show, at least that you willingly gave, from our time together. I wish I could turn back the clock and erase what followed. You’re one of the meanest most slippery fish I’ve ever been romantically involved with. In short, you’re all the candy bars I’ve ever eaten.
friends
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Glen Beck Exposes Federal Reserve; Gets Fired by Fox

Federal Reserve Tells YouTube to Take Down Critical Video!!

by Alex Jones (2011)

We have received a privacy claim by agents of the FED. They are threatening to remove the video and take down the channel within 36 hours if we don’t bow down to their demands.

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Robotic String Ensemble

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Why Cops Hate (A)narchists

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Why (A)narchists Hate Cops

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WAR Takes a Holiday

A famous sand story of WWII when a young women is waiting for her man–a Soldier–a story of our tragic and heroic past which must be never forgotten.

This performance was presented on “Ukraine’s got talent” show by Kseniya Simonova and brought her win.

Kseniya Simonova is a sand artist from Ukraine. She lives in Crimea (South of Ukraine). Her great-grandfather was an officer of USSR army and defended his Motherland from horrible Nazi’s invasion. He was killed in 1943 and Kseniya decided to devote her semi-final performance on UGT to his heroism.

In the end of the story Kseniya writes in Russian a phrase which means “You are always nearby.”

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